Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “Does it mean you should be smelling like dog breath?” I joke.

            “I’m going to do that.” His voice is raspy.

            “To do what?”

            “Make you smell like”—the plane touches down with a graceful bump—“me.”

            My hands tighten around the armrests as we race down the runway. I’m horror-stricken, scenarios of us splattered against the building at the end of the strip blooming in my brain. Little by little, we slow down—and little by little, Lowe’s words settle like dust.

            “Like you?”

            He nods, busy with some final maneuvers. I notice a small group of people gathered by the hangar. Emery’s welcoming committee, ready to slaughter us.

            “That’s fine. Do what you want with my body,” I say absently, trying to guess which one of them is more likely to throw a clove of garlic at me. “Fair warning, Serena often bitches about how gross and cold I feel. Those three degrees make all the difference.”

            “Misery.”

            “Seriously, I don’t care. Do whatever.”

            The maneuvering is over. He unbuckles and assesses the Weres waiting for us. There’s five of them, and they look tall. Then again: so am I. And so is Lowe.

            “If they attack us—”

            “They won’t,” he interrupts me. “Not now.”

            “But if they do, I can help—”

            “I know, but I can take them on my own. Come on, we don’t have much time.” He takes me by the wrist, pulling me into the main sitting area, which is larger than the cabin, but too small for the way we’re standing in front of each other. “I’m going to—”

            “Do whatever.” I crane my neck past him to catch a glimpse of the Weres through the portholes. Some are actually in wolf form.

            “Misery.”

            “Just hurry and—”

            “Misery.” I jolt back to him at the command in his voice. There’s an angry V between his brows. “I need your explicit consent.”

            “For what?”

            “I’m going to scent you the traditional Were way. It entails rubbing my skin against yours. My tongue, too.”

            Oh. Oh.

            Something electric, liquid, pools inside my body. I deal with it the only way I can: by laughing. “Seriously?”

            He nods, as serious as quicksand.

            “Like a wet willy?”

            His hand lifts to my neck.

            Stops.

            “May I touch you?” He’s asking for permission, but there’s nothing insecure or tentative about it. I nod. “Weres have scent glands—here.” He brushes the pad of his thumb against the hollow on the left side of my throat. “Here.” The right side. “And here.” His hand wraps around my neck, palm flush against my nape. “Your wrists, too.”

            “Ah.” I clear my throat. And resist the urge to squirm, because I’m feeling . . . I have no idea. It’s the way he looks at me. His pale, piercing eyes. “This is a, um, fascinating anatomy lecture, but—Oh, shit. The green markings, at our wedding! But I—”

            “You don’t have scent glands,” he says, like I’m more predictable than taxes, “but you do have pulse points, where your blood pumps closer to the surface, and the heat—”

            “—will augment the scent. I’m familiar with the whole blood thing.”

            He nods and holds my eyes expectantly, until he understands that I have no clue what he’s waiting for. “Misery. Do I have your permission?”

            I could say no. I know that I could say no and he’d probably just find another way to protect me—or die trying, because he’s that kind of guy. And maybe that’s exactly why I nod and close my eyes, thinking that it won’t be a big deal.